My fingers reach
Into it
As if into
A wrinkled bed sheet,
Pulpy and tender,
And nearly as sweet,
The scent of it
More arrosing than
Any morning cup
Of joe
It’s feel as tender
As a flower I might
Reach into
To where the nectar
Hides, this a place
Of dreams, where
All the most intense
Desires reside,
Deep inside,
Passed the gatekeeper,
Through the woods
Of saplings,
To the button that
When pushed
Sets it all to
Vibrate,
This soft, vulnerable,
Puffy place
I mistake for heaven
But could be hell
If I don’t reach it.
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